


Wanderlust

by TheRealDanniX



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I used Grammerly, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Angst, No Beta, Non-Graphic Violence, does that count?, dragon!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23374174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealDanniX/pseuds/TheRealDanniX
Summary: A dragon travels through the human world, loses his memory, fixates on a Witcher and the rest is, well, never dull.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 514





	Wanderlust

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what this is, but I couldn't go to sleep until I got it out of my head. I hope y'all enjoy it.
> 
> Drop a comment or Kudus if you do.

He was only twelve when he first walked as a human. He could change much sooner than any of his cousins had, but his family wasn't exactly surprised. His mother was half-human. It would make sense that her child would be able to handle the change much easier than a full-blooded dragon. In centuries past, this might have been an embarrassment, even reason for banishment. But with so few dragons left, any dragon blood was worth protecting in the fold and a human form was so much safer than a dragon form. So the day when he took his first steps on just two feet with barely a glint to his teeth, his parents rejoiced.

Seven years later, when their small family was discovered and hunted, the dragon was once again grateful that he could hide faster than his parents or cousins. That didn’t make the sobs any easier when he saw their bodies. Though the humans thought he was sobbing in joy at being liberated. They took pity on him. A strange boy with a body that was not truly his own hiding at the back of the dragon’s keep. They thought him a prisoner. He knew he looked like a small child to them. He likely only seemed to be nine or ten, not twenty one. That would change if he stayed in his fragile human form. When they turned him over to the Viscount’s family as an orphan, he knew it would be years before he could take his draconic form again. Many long years.

They claimed him as their son and gave him a name that fit with their nobility. Julian Alfred Pankratz. They made him their heir since they had no children of their own. They gave him whatever he asked for.

Except for freedom.

He found something that sated him in music. He found that his human voice pleased the nobles that surrounded him. They even let him learn to play instruments, though his favorite was the one they liked least. Somehow that made him like it more. He would take his lute and play for hours on end, learning how to maneuver his thin human fingers over the strings to make it sing as best he could.

Eight years after they took him in, he ran away. And for the first time since he became Julian, he changed form, stretching his wings and flying away from the prison that was Lettenhove, taking only the lute and the name with him as he hid in a mountain cave. But it was only months before his itched to play and sing in his human form. So he found himself traveling. He traveled all over, spending time wherever he could learn more about the bardic craft that called to him and provided solace. Eventually, he found himself at Oxenfurt. He knew he looked no older than an eighteen-year-old child, only slightly older than others who turned to the school for knowledge. No one knew that he was truly nearing his forties. Once he had his fill at Oxenfurt, he took to traveling armed with new talents as a poet and composer eager to try his hand.

It was his own fault that someone found out what he was. He had been traveling, trying to find a good place to hide for a few years when the urge to change had consumed him. It was his own fault that the person to see him leap into the air with shining golden wings was a mage. It was his own fault that when he landed, they tried to take him. It was not his fault that they forced him to change back to his weaker, human form. Nor was it his fault when they took his mind and curled it in on itself, looking for information about his family. About other dragons. By the time he managed to escape, his mind was broken. Memories of who he was, what he was, were lost. Possible for good. But the music that always seemed to calm him and call to him was still there, just beneath the skin.

He doesn’t know how old he is when he gets to Posada. He doesn’t really know what he’s been running from either, but he knows how his fingers itch to play the old lute that rests in his hands. He isn’t even sure of his name. But he needs to play.

That’s how he finds himself dancing around a reasonably crowded tavern at the Edge of the World, playing a Gods-awful song that is one of the few he can remember.

“Abort yourself!”

“I’m so glad I can bring you all together like this!” He ducks as they throw bread at him while he places his lute back in its case. Then he stoops to gather the bread. Waste not, want not and all that. His eyes scan the tavern on their own, fixating on a man in the darkest corner. Without really registering what he’s doing, he moves toward the man, never letting his eyes leave. It doesn’t make sense, but something about this brooding mass draws him in. “I love how you just sit in the corner and brood.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. The man looks at him with yellow eyes that send a thrill through his skin. “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance. Except you.” He hesitates a moment. “You don’t want to keep a man with…bread in his pants waiting.” He slides into the seat. “You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

“They don’t exist.”

“Whaaat don’t exist?”

“The creatures from your song.” Well, that’s good to know, though not really the kind of comment he was fishing for.

“How would you know?” The bard meets the man’s yellow eyes again. Suddenly a thought comes to him unbidden, pouring from his mouth as it forms. “Oh, fun. White hair, a bit of a loner, two very, very scary looking swords. I know who you are.” He follows as the man rises. “You’re the Witcher. Geralt of Rivia.” Of course, he would know this man- sorry, witcher’s -name and not his own. Maybe they knew each other.

If he didn’t know the witcher before, he certainly does now. After following him, getting captured by elves, and being released, he feels a certain familiarity with Geralt of Rivia that he doesn’t even feel with himself. So he does the only thing he can think of and follows. It’s a day and a half after leaving Posada and the two are sitting at a camp, made mostly by Geralt. Geralt, who had been sharpening his swords, looks over at the bard. The bard is fiddling with little yellow flowers, braiding them together to form a crown. The Witcher sighs, drawing his attention up to the other’s yellow eyes.

“What is your name, bard?” Geralt asks.

His fingers freeze. “Well, I would have thought you’d ask that when I first started following you, not days later,” he huffs, trying to buy time. “But since you’ve actually decided to take an interest in me, I suppose it’s only fair. I’m Jaskier.” The name is out of his mouth, much like most things, without pausing for consideration in his mind. Geralt rolls his eyes and resumes the maintenance on his weapons. Thinking that the end of the exchange, the bard, Jaskier, returns to the task of weaving yellow flowers together.

“Jaskier of where?” Geralt’s voice sends a chill through Jaskier, despite the warm air.

“Jaskier of Lettenhove.” Once again, the words bypass his mind. A quiet grunt signifies that the answer satisfies the Witcher, but the bard finds himself fixating. He lets the flowers fall away, reaching instead for his lute. As he plucks absently, he tries to focus on the name and home he had just given himself. Why Jaskier? An old memory prickles at him. Someone looking fondly at him as he holds up a small yellow flower. A strong, rough voice laughing.

 _“A buttercup? Only you would pick that.”_ A language that was not the common tongue. The word buttercup suddenly becoming Jaskier. His name. His choice. Why Lettenhove? He could have said anywhere on the continent. Why chose Lettenhove? It didn’t matter how hard he focused, he couldn’t seem to find the answer. Eventually, when darkness has enveloped them, Jaskier gives up. Maybe someday the reason would come back. For now, he could settle in the fact that he had a name.

A month into their travels finds them traveling along a mountain path. Jaskier is babbling, mostly to past the time as the stoic witcher and his lovely horse lead them. Another reason is the insistence itch that he feels each time he looks at the horizon. It feels like it’s calling him, the same way his lute does when he goes without playing for too long. When they stop for a break, Jaskier finds himself inching closer and closer to the edge of the path, which drops harshly down.

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls, sounding more than a little annoyed. “If you fall, I will leave you for the vultures.”

“Oh come on, Geralt. I’m not going to fall. Some of us know what it’s like to admire the scenes around us. After all, you can’t be my only source of inspiration, as wonderfully beneficial as our adventures have been. After all, there’s only so much gore that one can take in a song. I need to find beauty from somewhere, and it will not be from a witcher covered in blood and guts.” Jaskier manages not to mention the beauty of the Witcher’s golden eyes and snow-like hair. He also manages to pull himself back from the edge, though that is considerably more difficult.

They settle into this sort of familiarity of traveling together. Jaskier’s songs grow in popularity and they even end up at some courts, though neither of them is comfortable. (Especially after one particular betrothal where the witcher seems to temporarily lose his mind and gains a child for it.) Sometimes, Jaskier does wander off, but he always finds his way back to Geralt, no matter what trouble the bard has managed to get into. It’s after one of these brief interludes that Jaskier finds Geralt tossing a net into a lake, over and over again. Admittedly, he may be slightly drunk, but that is still no excuse for the conversation that follows. Especially since he knows that Geralt can smell the alcohol on him. It certainly was not deserving of the filling-less pie comment. Which is why Jaskier has no qualms snatching the djinn from his friend. “Take it back about my filling-less pie and you can have your djinny djinn djinn!” he snaps. Geralt growls at him. But when the amphora breaks and their argument gets worse, Jaskier is still not expecting Geralt to turn anything against. After all, they had known each other for over a decade (possibly more, though Jaskier couldn’t remember more than that.) Then there is a searing pain in his throat and all he can think about is the loss of his music.

* * *

Geralt of Rivia hates what he has just done to his friend. As he forces Roach to move faster, he hates how he can feel every strangled breath from the bard. How he can hear the rasping and smell the blood. He has to stop himself from yelling at the elf for more information. He doesn’t stop himself from knocking out the guard at the mayor’s house. Carrying Jaskier in his arms proves more difficult than he’s expecting, but he keeps moving all the same. Jaskier's life is in his hands. More so than normal. The mayor is distracting. The mage is too. But one thought keeps him focused. Jaskier needs to survive. He hesitates to call Jaskier his friend, after what he has done to the bard.

“What is he?” Yennefer, the mage asks, leaning over the unconscious bard curiously.

“A bard,” Geralt says finally. It’s all he can ascribe to Jaskier without calling him friend.

“You’ve said.” The mage eyes him with violet eyes. She folds her arms across her chest. “I meant what race is he? He clearly isn’t human. It could impact how he heals.” The witcher frowns. As far as he knew, Jaskier was human. Jaskier had always been human if different from the rest. Not scared. More kind. Maybe a little strange, but human.

“What do you mean?” Geralt growls. Jaskier stirs slightly in his sleep, face twisting and smell souring with pain.

The mage rolls her eyes. “You don’t know. That is entirely unhelpful.” Yennefer turns her attention back to the bard, touching her fingers to his temple. A second later she pulls back with a gasp. Geralt grimaces.

“What did you do?” His voice is harsher than he meant for it to be. He shouldn't care so much about someone he’ll lose in a decade or two anyway. Yennefer doesn’t respond. Instead, she mutters something in Elder, laying one hand on the bard’s chest and the other gently against his temple. “Yennefer,” Geralt warns. His hand is gripping his sword, though he's not sure when that happened. She glares at him but keeps muttering her elder chant. Jaskier eyelids flicker, but the eyes Geralt glimpses are like a reptile’s. The Witcher inches closer wanting to take the bard’s hand. Wanting to understand. A shudder passes through Jaskier’s body and Yennefer stops.

“Bring him,” She orders. She opens a portal by the bed. Geralt gently lifts the bard off the bed. Every place he touches feels like it’s on fire and Jaskier shakes, eyelids still fluttering. “Set him on the ground.” Yennefer instructs once they’re through the portal. Reluctantly, Geralt obeys, though mostly because the bard is moving more. Yennefer takes the witcher’s arm and pulls him back as Jaskier thrashes, curling in on himself.

“What did you do to him?” Geralt hisses pulling her arm off his with more force than strictly necessary.

“What you asked. You wanted me to heal him and this was the best way to do it,” Yennefer snaps. Geralt’s reply is cut off by a strangled sound coming from the bard. Heat crashes into them like a wave. Jaskier’s body twists and cracks in a way that seems both beautiful and painful as he changes. Golden scales travel across his skin. When his eyes finally open, he lets out a roar. His wings stretch behind him and his blue reptilian eyes fix on Geralt. For his part, the Witcher cannot move. The roar rattles through his bones, and the gaze of the dragon steals any thought. When a thought comes, the only word that he seems able to form tumbles from his mouth.

“Jaskier,” he breathes. Golden scales gleam in the sun as the dragon lowers its head to Geralt’s height. Its head tilts slightly, in a way that could only be the bard. Then he pulls back tilting his head to the sky and letting a stream of flames. He stretches his wings and leaps into the air, stealing all thoughts from Geralt’s mind once again. The mage chuckles.

“I’ve never seen a dragon before.” Her voice is airy like she doesn’t quite believe what she’s seeing. For a while they just stand there, watching as the dragon, as Jaskier weaves through the clouds. When he lands, the ground shakes slightly. Then, the dragon is gone and in its place is the bard, still wearing the blood-stained chemise. His brown hair is messy, and his smile seems to have too many teeth, but he’s there. And he’s alive.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again. The smile on the bard’s face becomes sheepish.

“Geralt, I-I didn’t know,” Jaskier starts. He steps back, but Geralt reaches for him, pulling him into an embrace. Jaskier’s body is still warm and his smell is stronger than ever, like brimstone and buttercups and oak. Jaskier yelps but doesn’t pull away. After a moment, he melts into the hug, letting the witcher support him.

Yennefer clears her throat, forcing Geralt to release the dragon. “Not that this wasn’t impressive, I believe you owe me coin, Witcher.” She opens another portal leading back to the room they had come from. The other two follow, leaving as quickly as possible.

Geralt is eager to get the bard alone. To talk, for once. Jaskier just seems to be pleased to have working vocal cords again. He doesn’t stop humming the entire way out of town. Geralt stops them in a field of flowers, somewhere he knew Jaskier could find beauty, about an hour away from Yennefer’s house. Jaskier doesn’t say anything when Geralt makes his sit among the flowers. He also won’t meet Geralt’s eyes.

“Jaskier,” he starts.

“I’m sorry,” the bard says, cutting him off. “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret. I just didn’t know. I didn’t remember. I thought, well, I thought I was human.” He lets out a dry laugh. “I understand if you want me to go. I’m not who you thought I was. I-I didn’t know my own name until, well, until that mage did whatever she did.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs.  
“No, it’s all right, Geralt. You can just leave me here and go on with your adventures. You don’t have to deal with my century of baggage. You never agreed to that and I won’t force that on you.”

“Jaskier, let me speak.” Geralt tried to meet his eyes, which become easier when Jaskier’s head snaps up.

“You…“ the bard starts, but he shuts his mouth with one look at Geralt. His blue eyes are pleading with the Witcher.

“I-I don’t want you to leave.” The words feel like cotton in his mouth. He had known this for a while. Why was it so hard to say when insults and anger came out so easily? “Your….heritage doesn’t change that.” He forces himself to take a breath. “You are my friend, bard.” Jaskier doesn’t say anything, even though Geralt pauses after every sentence, forming thoughts and words painfully slowly. “It should not have taken your pain for me to have seen that.” Another deep breath. “I want you to stay.”

“If you’ll let me,” Jaskier says quietly. His eyes are watering. “I’ve never felt as safe as I do when I’m traveling with you.” Geralt feels himself smile.


End file.
